The Weapon
by Kelpie the Thundergod
Summary: And the things that we fear/Are a weapon to be held against us


**The Weapon**

Disclaimer: I don't own Trigun. Lyrics taken from The Weapon by Rush (I only rearranged them a little).

A/N: Various POVs and time skips. Beta'd by the lovely Celesma :-) All remaining mistakes are my own

'Shoot a man with a gun... he dies.'

_We've got nothing to fear, but fear itself_

_Not pain, not failure, not fatal tragedy_

Wolfwood felt it that one time, when the old man tried – and failed – to take revenge for his raped and murdered daughter: the fear in Vash. The fear that someone might die.

The fear of helplessness. Of making the wrong choice.

He understood then, that Vash's fear was going to be their greatest enemy.

_Not the faulty units in this mad machinery_

_Not the broken contacts in emotional chemistry_

Of course he himself also dreads what would happen were he to fail. Still, there are only two possible outcomes: he succeeds and dies or fucks up and dies. Therefore, fear does exist, so to say, but he pushes it back whenever it threatens to overcome him. He's been doing that for so long actually, that by now, it has shrunken down to something like a numb, barely-there sensation.

Not erased but controlled.

Chained good and buried deep.

Being afraid can't help him. It might even speed his fall along.

But can he trust himself to truly master his fear?

He has failed before.

He has to _function_.

He drags the smoke in deeply, _deeper_, clenching and unclenching his hand. Drawing the handgun, flexing his fingers. The weight of the gun always calms him. It is disgusting but true.

There is a lot wrong with the world. Nothing seems to change, unless you hold a weapon to someone's head and _make _them move forward. Or stop them forever.

_With an iron fist in a velvet glove we are sheltered under the gun_

From out of the shadow of a dilapidated building, he observed the loud, crowded market place, watchful but actually lost in thought.

If mankind knew what kind of power protected them from out of the dark, how would they react? Would they shy away from him, fall on their knees in blind faith, or reach out to him with greedy hands? In the beginning, he used to wonder about such things a lot, but it had only been self-deception, really.

His lost gaze trailed over the beggars with their toothless smiles, the lowlifes with their twitchy fingers. The gun weighed heavily at his side.

What these people needed were peace and hope. Or this might never end, and there would never be any forgiveness, no redemption.

He would disappoint _her_.

Vash shifted in the shadows, finally pushing away from the wall and stepping out of its protective shade.

He would hold unto his weapons. He had to shield the people from all of this, had to forgive them their flaws. Even if he'd only ever get a punch in the face in return.

He would never kill but he would stop his brother.

They would have to hope for mercy.

_In the glory game of the power train_

_Thy kingdom will be done_

Humans need a firm hand. They strive for power. It probably comes naturally to them, those weak, false, anxious, violent, _cruel _creatures.

Oh, they can play harmless, all right. They might even live in what they'd call _peace. _In the illusion of quiet and righteousness.

But only as long as they get what they want.

And even then – throw them a bone and they will tear at each other's throats like mad dogs.

It won't ever stop.

Only their power, their wisdom can erase the violence from this poor planet.

Only paradise will stop all these killings.

And he – they – will bring it to them. He would finally show them true righteousness.

In one last act of mercy.

_He's not afraid of your judgment_

_He knows of horrors worse than your hell_

_He's a little bit afraid of dying_

_But he's a lot more afraid of your lying_

"I'll trade my life for it."

You know, you've made Vash angry with that one, though mostly sad.

Vash couldn't bear someone dying for him.

There's history to that, but you won't ask. It'll take time for Vash to understand you, time you won't have. Regardless of what you are – _stupidly_ – feeling, you don't _want_ him to trust you, you only want him to _believe_ you.

And in the end, a gun will be a gun.

You may be a weapon in someone's hand – but at least that'll mean you get to try and change something.

If the price for that is your life, well, it's a cheap one.

You don't know what awaits you on the other side. Considering what you've done, what you _became_, it can't be pleasant. You don't deserve it to be.

And you're okay with pain. With punishment.

What it is then, that makes your heart clench and your blood rise? It's the cold, numbing thought that if Vash won't go all the way through with this, the damn hypocrite, it will all be for nothing. You'd be powerless, long since forgotten and vanished under the sands.

And no force you possess could ever be threatening enough to change that.

_And the things that we fear_

"You are the coward, Wolfwood."

"You speak of forgiveness, but you don't want to make your own hands dirty."

"Are you that afraid to trust someone?"

"The time will come when you'll have to choose."

"This is where the true battle is fought! Don't turn away from me!"

_are a weapon to be held against us..._

'Why does one take a gun?

'Maybe it's out of bravery. Or strength. Yeah, you'd think it makes you strong, right? But Vash... before you do that, always think about what everybody wants to protect. Think about how heavy it lays in your hand.

_'__You _might care, but the gun won't.'

_Can any part of life be larger than life?_

_Even love must be limited by time_

They are too close to the end to start that now.

It's the only thing he can think about, _this is wrong, wrong, wrong –_ there is so much violence behind them, so much more to come, and he is _weak, weak, weak_.

He is so much more limited by time than Vash is. So much more than any other human, really.

But Vash's leaning over him, both arms on either side of Wolfwood's face, where he's lying on the dusty bed. Vash's hand in his hair, the other cupping his face now, thumb stroking his cheekbone and_ that's it, every time, he should stop, __stop, stop_. Now, before it's too late, only that's it's been too late the moment they started, the moment they did this the first time, months back.

Violently, they are drawn to each other. Always at the other's back, they are each other's greatest source of power. And yet he, Wolfwood, is supposed to be the one last weapon thrust into Vash's heart.

He buries his hands in Vash's ridiculous hair, swallows his moan, bites the other man's lips.

Maybe Vash will remember this of him instead of all the people, all the things Wolfwood has killed.

_He's not afraid of your judgment_

_He knows of horrors worse than your hell_

_He's a little bit afraid of dying_

_But he's a lot more afraid of your lying_

Vash watches Wolfwood's face closely whenever they speak of the future. The final fight, the final confrontation, the whatever.

Even he doesn't know what will happen.

Wolfwood, though, looks like he has a pretty good idea on how's it all gonna come down.

His eyes get that sharp focus, jaw clenched, lines of his face hardening.

He looks determined, but as always, there is a distinct, underlying subtlety to it. There is something he's hiding – _still,_ despite everything, and that hurts – and yet, it sometimes feels like he desperately wants Vash to see what it is, acknowledge it. Maybe corner him about it and, probably – considering that it's _Wolfw__ood_ – beat whatever it is out of him.

Wolfwood is afraid. He's afraid of what lies before them.

Only Vash is not so sure anymore he really knows why that is. What those fears are, what ignites them.

Why the priest clings to him at one moment, _desperate_, bruising, and then pushing him away.

Vash has seen so many things over the years, the _decades_ – fear and violence, he should have it down cold now. Should understand what is happening here.

But he doesn't.

Sometimes, it gets so frustrating, he feels like hitting the priest, like threatening him until he spills whatever it is he will clearly never tell him otherwise, _never._

Feels like taking the priest's hand and pressing that gun to his own – Vash's – head again, like Wolfwood did so long ago. Remind him of why life is precious again, why he shouldn't give up.

But then again, it might just be the wrongest thing of all to do.

He has saved people with weapons, but only because he himself is one.

_And those who put us down that they might climb_

_Is any killer worth more than his crime?_

You watch Vash save the bad guys from a lethal strike, pushing traitors to their feet again. Watch him avoiding again and again to choose. You don't know who you're feeling more disgusted with, Vash or yourself.

It angers and confuses you.

Don't they say, "Judge people by what they do"?

You get the feeling Vash judges people by what they _don't _do.

There are things even _you_ will never know, Vash.

Even if _you_ can wait, we can't. You have to put them down before they trample you in the dirt.

"Do you think I don't wish for this to be different? I told you, _everyone _can be forced to pick up a gun. Fear and anger is all that counts here. They're the only things that even survive the death of someone."

You think:

Him and Knives, they have _both _judged us.

The only difference is that he decided to climb down to us and share in our hell.

A world where, in the end, the weapon decides.


End file.
